But there isn’t.
Exhaling sharply, Sergei raked a hand through his hair. “You’re right that there’s a contract on your head.” He didn’t look at Dom, but he felt him freeze. Like there was a shockwave coming off him or something.
“Of course I—how do you know?”
Arms folded tight across his chest, Sergei stared out the kitchen window. Or at least, let Dom think that’s what he was doing—he stayed focused a hundred percent on Dom’s reflection, watching every move in case he lost his shit and came at him or something.
“A hit’s been ordered.” Sergei swallowed, his heart pounding even faster and the shivering getting out of control. “And it’s an inside job.”
Dom shifted his weight. He studied Sergei, and Sergei swore he could feel the scrutiny prickling the back of his neck.
“The order came from Felice Maisano.” Sergei moistened his lips. “Straight from him.”
“Yeah, I know.” Dom was quiet for a longest time. Easily a minute or more, which felt like for-fucking-ever. “How the hell do you know any of this?”
Sergei closed his eyes. His knees were shaking now, and he prayed Dom couldn’t see it. And fuck—he’d left his gun in the other room. If this escalated, he—
“Sergei, how do you know this?” Dom stepped a little closer. “Any of it?”
Sergei took a deep breath. “The night we met, you asked about my accent.”
Dom rolled his eyes. “Don’t play fucking games. What does that have—”
“I told you my accent is Russian. Right?”
He exhaled sharply. “Yeah. What of it?”
Steeling himself, Sergei turned around. “My family didn’t come from Russia, Dom. We’re—” His stomach coiled so tight he was ready to puke. “We’re from a little former Soviet country called Georgia.”
“Georgia? So—” Dom’s eyes widened. Sergei could almost hear the pieces falling into place inside his head, and he pulled back against the counter. “Shit, Sergei. Are…” He swallowed. “Are you telling me you’re the Georgian?”
Sergei nodded slowly. “Yes.”
Dom stared at him, lips apart and eyes enormous. “You…”
“Yeah. Me.” Sergei straightened. “They use me because no one would ever suspect someone like me of having any ties to the Mafia.” He gestured at himself. “Look at me. I’m a flaming fucking fag who grinds his ass on men’s dicks for a living.”
Dom winced.
Sergei went on, “They don’t want anything to do with anybody queer, so they send me in to do their dirty work and nobody suspects a thing.”
Dom scrubbed a hand over his face. Then he froze. Slowly, he lowered his hand and met Sergei’s eyes. “They say the Georgian was the one who killed my uncle. At a fucking funeral.”
Sergei swallowed. “It’s true.”
“And his consigliere? With me sitting right there next to him?”
He nodded, his throat tightening. “I’m sorry, Dom.”
“Sorry?” Dom studied him, his eyes icier than Sergei had ever seen them.
Sergei steeled himself again. “Look, I didn’t know this would end with a hit on you. I—”
“You killed him. You killed… all of them.”
Sergei took in a breath. Then he nodded.
And Dom fucking snapped.
Chapter 30
Overcome with rage, Dom lunged at Sergei.
“Pezzo di merde!” They both tumbled against the cabinets, and then to the kitchen floor. “I had to kill my own cousin because of you!” Dom got his hands around Sergei’s throat, but a swift kick to his knee distracted him long enough for Sergei to slip out of his grasp.
Sergei scrambled up. Dom grabbed his elbow and pulled him back down. Sergei put a heel right in his ribs. Dom grunted, but didn’t lose his grip, but a second kick nailed him in the gut, and Sergei was gone again. The son of a bitch was small, but he was fast. And fucking strong.
Dom started to get up, but Sergei came at him this time. They both toppled onto the kitchen floor. He threw an elbow, but Sergei got out of the way, and Dom only grazed his cheekbone. A fist or a knee—something blunt with a lot of force behind it—hit his solar plexus. Not hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but hard enough to stun him, and in the split second it took for Dom to recover, Sergei got behind him and pinned him facedown on the floor. Sergei twisted Dom’s arm between their bodies behind Dom’s back, and his arm across materialized around Dom’s throat.
“Fucking stop,” Sergei snarled.
“I’m going to fucking kill you. You—”
“Dom, listen to me.”
“Why the fuck should I? You’re going to kill me, you son of a—”
“If I wanted you dead, you would be.”
Dom froze.
Reality sank in quick. Sergei—the goddamned Georgian—had him immobile on the floor. He had the order to kill him. But Dom was still breathing. Not easily, thanks to the pressure on his throat and even Sergei’s relatively light weight on his ribs.